


Guardian

by flatfelledyetstillundone



Series: Stoned And Associated Works [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Other, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Slash, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Unbetaed: We Fall Like Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29989848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flatfelledyetstillundone/pseuds/flatfelledyetstillundone
Summary: There was a thump at the door, rather than a civilized knock. Not at all the sort of clever rap Aziraphale had imagined Crawley would do, but who was he to really know for sure? But then, immediately after, was a hissing gasp and a peculiar flare from the sense of Crawley that made the stomach of Aziraphale’s corporation flip."We were preparing the dead, and, see! It is a miracle that she lives! Please, please help.”Yes, thought Aziraphale, it was a miracle. Just not the kind they thought it was. He needed to get Crawley cleaned up and put back together as much as he could safely, using human methods so as not to draw any attention.-----Or: Crawley is stoned for being a demon. Aziraphale does his best to help her recover. (From Aziraphale's POV)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Stoned And Associated Works [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205993
Kudos: 18





	Guardian

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Some swearing; graphic descriptions of injuries, cleaning injuries, injuries rapid-healing; poor self-esteem; and oh yeah Stoning.
> 
> Mind the Tags, my dears! This is rated Mature because there is some pretty gnarly injury description in here. Injuries inflicted by regular, everyday humans, which can be extra hard to read about for some of us folx. The author is doing better, but still going through Stuff, yeah sorry. But! This is likely less of a downer than "Stoned" was. That said, the author can't wait until they're once again inspired to write fluffy things with happy endings.
> 
> It helps to have read "Stoned" first, but this piece and "Stoned" can really be read in either order, or as stand alone works.

**Guardian --** _One that watches over, or protects; a custodian_

Aziraphale had had a long day. He’d walked out to the orchards of Netaniel, a prominent member of the Temple, to try to convince him that the Elders' notions of how to treat certain societal elements was wrong. He was looking forward to enjoying a bit of beer and some of the lovely pomegranates he’d brought back with him. But something itched at him, fluttering at the edge of his notice, and it was bothering him that he hadn’t yet identified it. It had been doing so since he got back into town, near sundown. And now the sun was down, he was lighting his lamps, and he still hadn’t identified the source of his intuition’s nudging.

Until, abruptly, he did. It was the demon Crawley, and she was close, yet oddly faint. Aziraphale put the beer and pomegranates back into the cloth-covered pantry shelves he had and lit the lamp in the alcove that activated the wards he’d placed around the perimeter of his small home here in town. The wards would prevent any of his superiors -- or Crawley’s superiors… or would it be more proper to call them inferiors? Aziraphale should ask sometime -- from noticing their meetup. It was a new set of Enocian rune combinations in the circle, and Aziraphale was quite proud of it. He looked forward to telling Crawley about it, since really there was no one else to talk to about such things. No one who would have any appreciation for it, anyway.

There was a thump at the door, rather than a civilized knock. Not at all the sort of clever rap Aziraphale had imagined Crawley would do, but who was he to really know for sure? But then, immediately after, was a hissing gasp and a peculiar flare from the sense of Crawley that made the stomach of Aziraphale’s corporation flip in a way that made the few sips of beer he’d had do unpleasant things. Aziraphale went for the door rather faster than he’d planned to.

“Mench* Aziraphale? Please? It’s Elisheva,” came a certainly unexpected voice from the other side of the door. Oh, no.

Aziraphale opened the door, remembering to put a peaceful expression on his face. “Yes? What is it?” He saw Elisheva and another woman holding a cocooned blanket swaying between them. “Elisheva, is that you, dear girl? What brings you --” Barely peeking out of said blanket was a beak of a nose and a sharp chin that Aziraphale would recognise anywhere, even if his other senses weren’t telling him that Yes, that is a demon right there and furthermore, it is the Demon Crawley, Serpent of Eden.

And her nose and -- oh, mercy! broken! -- chin were crusted with blood and grime.

“Oh,” _What had happened?_ “Oh, goodness. Come inside, quickly.”

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” Elisheva said, her voice filled with respect and deference. “We were preparing the dead, and, see! It is a miracle that she lives! Please, please help.”

Yes, thought Aziraphale, it was a miracle. Just not the kind they thought it was. He needed to get Crawley cleaned up and put back together as much as he could safely, using human methods so as not to draw any attention. Hopefully, that would be enough that Crawley could focus on using her energy to heal the bigger wounds, which she must have if she’s being carried by the two women who prepared the dead of the poorest of the poor and the criminals. 

He moved a few things in the room to make a space he could easily work on any side of. “Here, set her here. Gently! Yes, good.” He adjusted the location of his lamps so that there would be plenty of light to work with. He may have even made a few extra appear inconspicuously on a shelf so he could bring them over and light them. He’d need the light for any delicate work. A quick glance at the one in the alcove assured him that it wasn’t even flickering; wards were fully in place without even a flutter. And now, he’d need his largest bowl and some cloths for cleaning. The women were hovering, clearly wanting to help. Yes, he could just miracle more water, but perhaps that would be a good task to keep them busy and allay any concerns they might have regarding poor Crawley. 

“Please,” Aziraphale said, turning to Elisheva and her friend whose name he knew not, “fetch as full of a bucket of water that each of you can manage, and then there will be no talk of payment, as that is all I shall accept from you, my dears.” He handed them his two buckets with a gentle smile and a nod, then shooed them toward the door. Elisheva made a face that spoke volumes of his kindness, but she only murmured an assent, as did her friend. Then they left, with Aziraphale softly closing the door behind them (after a few quick looks in every direction, just in case).

Aziraphale turned and stood, looking at the largely still-bundled Crawley lying on his floor. He wrenched his ring around his finger and nibbled at his bottom lip with worry. “Oh, Crawley, what have they done to you?” he murmured. They weren’t friends. They were supposed to be enemies. But they somehow understood each other more than their superiors did Above and Below; it was different here, on the ground, on Earth, with the humans. And Crawley, well… Crawley was a comfort to Aziraphale. Aziraphale did his best to reciprocate that, as he felt it only deserving, given how very much comfort Crawley had given him over the centuries. 

Crawley’s chest heaved as she tried to groan something out. _Stubborn demon!_ Aziraphale thought, as he quickly covered the remaining paces to her side. “Oh! No, don’t try to speak yet, Crawley!.” 

Aziraphale considered that hadn’t come out nearly as polite as it should have, and Crawley had rather a contrary streak. “That is, rather, er. Yes, you have a broken jaw and shouldn’t speak, not yet. It’s a wonder you weren’t discorporated! Oh my. Not to worry! I’ll help you clean up, get you sorted, then I’m sure you can manage to mend yourself. Yes. Right?” It was, after all, important to strike the right tone when trying to assist others. It fostered better cooperation, in Aziraphale’s experience. Or, well, he liked to think that it did.

With unknowing gracefulness, Aziraphale knelt next to the battered demon. Holy hands dipped into plain water, wetted a cloth scrap, and fluttered over to barely brush across crusted eyelids. Aziraphale’s left hand pushed back the blanket from Crawley’s form, so that he could better see what needed tending, in what order. Blood-caked eyelids first, though, as Aziraphale wanted Crawley to know she was safe; for that, she would want to see her surroundings, he knew. Whenever they’d met up, no matter where or when, Crawley’s eyes would always dart this way and that, ever vigilant, always watchful. 

So then: a quick survey. Aziraphale’s angelic eyes flicked side to side, noting details. 

Worst was the head wound, without a doubt. On the right side of her skull, behind and above her ear, her skull had actually caved in, showing bits of brain, flesh, and a mass of blood clotting into Crawley’s garnet curls. A human would be dead from it; Crawley was lucky she was not discorporated. A few more hours left untended and she might well have been.

Collapsed lung -- likely from a puncture, as those were surely broken ribs, there. Yes, it moved differently than it should as Crawley breathed. That would be the second priority.

No, it should be the third priority, after Crawley’s shattered jaw. Not because the jaw damage was more critical to the operation of Crawley’s corporation -- no, the lungs were vastly more important, there -- but her sanity, her sense of safety? Absolutely. Jaw second, lungs and ribs third.

Fourth would be whatever was causing that shoulder to sit oddly. Aziraphale couldn’t quite tell yet, not with such a cursory inspection. Dislocation? Right, priorities set, then.

He warmed the water just a bit more with a slight angelic miracle, it would help remove the clots easier, he knew, and would be less shocking to the damaged nerve endings, especially on Crawley’s face. (Her beautiful face! Part of the angel, a part carefully buried deep so as not to frighten his companion, he rationalized, was seething. Furious. The casual cruelty of humans! This! This was why he was trying to encourage them to choose a better path. Not that many listened; not that his Superiors wanted him to be doing so, for that matter.) There, gently, so gently. Move that lock of hair back and away, brush that grime from the brow. Clean the corner of that lidded golden orb. The cut, there, above the eyebrow, now cleaned; a bruise bloomed like a rotted flower around Crawley’s eye socket.

Crawley began testing, the closer he got to cleaning her eyelids fully. He could see the movement of her eyes through the lids. Her lashes twitched and pulled at clots. After a last soft wipe, her eyelids were freed, and she blinked dazedly. Her eyes weren’t focusing as quickly as they should.

Aziraphale leaned a bit forward to make sure that her pupils weren’t two different sizes. They were, though. He had to get to that head wound. 

_She looks so frail and frightened_ , Aziraphale fretted. _It’s not right. She’s the brave one, the one to challenge and push. I’m the nervous one, the coward. Her jaw. I need to fix her jaw next. Then, she’ll feel like she has some kind of control, feel safer… hopefully. Oh, I do hope she knows she’s safe here!_

“Ah, there you are. Are you, ah, ready for me to set your jaw?” His nerves came out in his voice rather more than he would have wanted. Yet, Crawley seemed to trust him, judging by her pointed eye contact and slow blink of acknowledgement.

Aziraphale lightly ran his fingers to the spots they needed to be in to set her fracture properly. He could feel her watching him, so he gave her a brief nod in warning and then pulled swiftly to set the jaw correctly. “Ah!” she cried out in pain, her body jerking.

“Careful! Don’t move it yet!” Aziraphale warned. “It’s quite in pieces. Now, let’s have a look at --”

There was a quiet knock at the door, and then Elisheva and her friend entered, carefully balancing their buckets. Aziraphale smiled at them and stood, gesturing to where they could set their burdens. He saw how they watched Crawley from the corners of their eyes, though they showed no fear, only wonder. Before they turned to go, each pressed a hand to her heart and bowed her head a tiny bit, as Aziraphale had seen the women here do to well-respected women of the community -- matriarchs and cantors, usually. Crawley had clearly impressed them. 

“May God heal you and protect you, Sister,” said the woman Aziraphale did not know.

“This man is the wisest, kindest, and best man I have ever met,” said Elisheva, “If anyone knows how to return you to health, it will be him. I hold in my heart that someday, you will be well again.” Aziraphale smiled at her and pressed a Blessing into her shoulder as he bid her a quiet farewell. Both women and their families would find their hardships lessened and their burdens eased from this day forth.

Aziraphale turned back to Crawley, who was of course watching everything, and knelt back down next to her. He moved a lamp a bit closer, so he could see the right side of her head clearly. The thin fabric of the veil had largely torn away, but it was still partially stuck to her head. He would need to wash the blood from it and her long curls before he could get to the gaping wound. Patiently, he began cleaning, tutting once as he pulled on a stuck piece of veiling. As he cleaned and parted hair away from the wound, he carefully shifted Crawley’s head away from him, to better light the area. 

He changed the water out, and continued. From the look of it, he was nearly finished cleaning the wound. 

“Mnf?” Crawley vocalized.

“Mmm?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and briefly shifted focus to Crawley’s eyes, checking that he’d understood her implied question. _How bad is it?_

Aziraphale knew he had to answer, but each sentence he tried out in his head was all wrong. Too close to chastisement. Too emotional. Too cool. Too detached. His hands continued their work as he pondered how to answer. Finally, “I’ve almost cleared this. I know you can’t feel it. Well, not exactly, though I am sure you must have an outrageous headache…” He set the cloth in the bowl and leaned just a touch forward so that she could see his face clearly without straining her eyes, since he’d turned her head away from him. “Crawley. It was close. So very close. A human would have died hours ago.” He searched her face to see if she understood, to see if she had it in her to pull through, perhaps to see something else, even. (He didn’t know what or why, but he searched anyway.) “I’m sure you must be quite worn out, keeping yourself, well. Alive, so to speak.” He again looked Crawley directly in the eyes, golden lamplight shining off of golden eyes. (Here lies treasure, gold and riches. Not that any part of an angel would think of that, no. Not until many years later, in recollection.)

Look away. Focus on your work. Her head wound; she needs to heal her head wound! “I think I’ve gotten the bits of bone out. Your corporation seems to be repairing itself as I move my fingers out of the way, anyway, so I figure that’s a good sign.” A sub-vocalized sound, not quite an attempt to say something, indicated that Crawley understood.

Her eyes unfocused as Aziraphale finished tidying her hair as much as he could for the moment. He could see the wound closing, brains and flesh and scalp and hair regrowing from the inside, out. Crawley’s eyes rolled up into her head and she made the most heart-rending gagging screams. Aziraphale couldn’t bear it. He knew he was a coward, because he turned away. He should have held her hand, stroked her hair, whispered comfort -- something. Instead, he’d flinched.

 _Pull yourself together. You are an angel!_ He scolded himself. He dragged over clean water and a cloth as Crawley’s eyes refocused. She was panting, with sweat beads laying thick and oily on her brow. 

Aziraphale wiped them with the cool, clean cloth. He tried for encouragement: “There, there, the worst is over! You’re doing so well!” Healing could be exhausting, he knew, and Crawley was clearly showing the effects of that exhaustion. Aziraphale wanted her to know that he understood, though he was fairly sure it didn’t come across well.

Crawley flopped her head back towards Aziraphale and rolled her eyes at him. Typical.

 _Well, if she’s feeling better enough to give me sass and bravado, then the pain of the Healing has passed,_ Aziraphale thought. He should give her a few more moments to rest before he began work on her other injuries. He didn’t like the way her one functioning lung sounded at the moment. And, oh, how he wanted her to know she needn't rush and exhaust herself -- that she was safe here! He twisted the cleaning rag he held in his hands, looking down. “Oh, Crawley,” he murmured, “I am so sorry this happened to you. Whatever it was, you didn’t deserve it, I am sure. I am very glad that Elisheva thought to bring you here. You’re safe here for as long as you need to stay; I’ve warded the doors and walls. We shan’t be disturbed by anyone until I deactivate them. We’ll simply pass beneath their notice. So… So take your time, please. Don’t exhaust yourself.” Aziraphale looked up to see Crawley watching him carefully; he held her gaze, hoping she knew how sincere he was. 

He was relieved to see Crawley heed his advice and rest for a while. Her gaze became distant and her breathing evened as much as it could. Aziraphale took the opportunity to clean the water and rags with a slight miracle. But then he heard the slight shifting within the blanket that spoke of her restlessness.

Very well, a distraction from the discomfort, then. “I bet I can get you tidied up a bit more, here. Clean up the blood -- goodness there’s quite a lot of it, but head wounds do bleed, don’t they?” With her head healed, if he focused on tidying the upper part of her face, it wouldn’t hurt and might very well be soothing. She seemed more relaxed. Patiently, he worked at cleaning along her jawline, neck, then where her arm and hand showed at the cuff of her sleeve. “Here, Crawley, while I work, I’ll give you something to listen to to distract yourself, hmm? Your veil is ruined, I’m afraid to say. A shame, it looks like it had a nice border on it. But you might be able to salvage your robes with a little work. Did you know that the silver edging is rather a sign of high status around here? I suppose you did and that’s why you picked it.”

Suddenly Crawley’s body jerked tight like a drawn bow. From her jaw came horrible crackling sounds as Aziraphale watched it wrench and twist back together. Then she went slack back onto the blanket and exhaled with a hiss. Aziraphale heard her jaw click into place in the abrupt silence.

“Crawley! Oh! Don’t you think you should have waited longer between those?” She was paler, he was sure.

Her eyes rolled back over to him and she worked at speaking for a few moments. “Angel, sstop fusssing. ‘Ss not my firsst time with thisss.” 

Aziraphale’s insides cramped. “Not your…? Oh, Crawley!”

“Asziraphale, Angel,” Crawley whispered, “‘M a demon. Humanss around thesse partss don’t like demonsss.” Aziraphale let out a little huff. Dislike was not a reasonable excuse for violence, truly. “Sshould’ve hidden my eyess better.”

 _Hidden her -- !_ “There is nothing wrong with your eyes, Crawley. Certainly nothing that calls for a beating of this magnitude.” Indeed, though they marked her as a demon, the mere thought of having those spectacularly glittering snake eyes hidden was simply unacceptable to Aziraphale. To conceal such a lovely attribute would be a tragedy.

Crawley snorted. “A ‘beating’? Of ‘thiss magnitude’? Angel, I was stoned. In the public square. Y’know? Bludgeoned to shit by big fucking rockss?”

Aziraphale found his mouth saying “Language, Crawley” without his input. Stoned. Crawley, his f- familiar counterpart had been stoned at approximately the same time as he, Aziraphale, had been eating pomegranates and trying to convince Netaniel that treating the poor more kindly and not holding slaves was perhaps a good idea. He should have been in town. He could have protected Crawley, stopped the stoning, gotten her safely out of town unhurt. Now… His eyes again roamed across Crawley’s body, assessing damage, looking to see what he had missed in his assumption that fists and feet -- at most a hefty stick -- had been the source of the damage. Not fist-sized rocks.

He began to work on cleaning Crawley’s neck better. “Stoned… Crawley, again, I am so sorry. Nobody should be stoned. It is a cruel and horrible punishment. I have even tried to convince some of the humans as much, though I am afraid my rather pacifistic notions failed to catch on with most.”

Crawley lapsed into silence, watching as Aziraphale worked. He worked from her neck, down towards the lungs and ribs. There were tears in the fabric of her gown, there, through which he could see scrapes, bruises, and dirt. It would all need to be cleaned and the gown mended.

At one spot near the 7th rib, Crawley hissed. Aziraphale froze for a moment to check her face, but she was merely calmly examining him. Nothing close to crisis, then. “So sorry. It’s quite caked on, just here.” Aziraphale hummed a little soothing noise, then caught himself at it and stopped. This would be a good way to get Crawley to focus on repairing this lung, if he could convince her it was her idea… “Ah, ooh. That side looks rather a mess.”

Crawley gave a tiny nod. “Yup. That lung collapsed. Think that’ss next.” She grit her teeth, and Aziraphale gathered she must be bracing for more Healing.

“Right,” He would do better this time. He would not flinch or look away. Instead, he would support Crawley when she needed his aid. It was the least he could do, for the times she had supported him. He gently lifted her hand and placed it between his palms. Softly, he murmured, “You’ve got this.”

For a moment, Crawley looked at their joined hands and seemed as if she might say something. Aziraphale hoped he hadn’t overstepped. Yet, as she considered their hands, he considered her face and the expression on it. It wasn’t one he was familiar with, and he was certainly familiar with her annoyed face. This expression was clearly something else, something more… positive? Almost a sort of wonder, but that… didn’t fit either.

The hissing sound of Crawley’s lung inflating was nothing like the sound the demon herself made from time to time. A series of ripples undulated down the front of the Serpent of Eden. Though she kept quiet, jaw clenched through it, Aziraphale could see how tightly she held herself to retain control. He winced at each disturbing sound, knowing that it was a part of Crawley’s corporation -- knowing that corporations shouldn’t properly make those sounds at all.

Aziraphale swallowed firmly. He could see how much effort that had taken out of Crawley. She had even closed her ever-watchful eyes after, and they were still closed! “Well, that was… excellent work, Crawley. Yes. All Healed up there. I think that might be all the worst of it, even.” He gently gave her hand a little pat and set it carefully on her stomach. He saw her breath briefly flutter when he did so and it made his heart ache to think that even such a slight weight as her hand was enough to hurt her as it weighed down on her abdomen. He decided to straighten her robes so that no extra weight sat on her battered and bruised body. Anything that he could do to help ease her pain and increase her comfort, he would do, he decided.

She rested quite a long time. After he finished tidying her person and the blanket around her, and she still hadn’t opened her eyes, he decided to move on to cleaning up the area. It wouldn’t do to dwell on how much blood she had lost; he would clear the bloody rags and dirty water so that she wouldn’t have to be confronted with it when she got up later. Yes, that was a good idea. It was as he was finishing up with the rags that Aziraphale felt the return of Crawley’s gaze. His own eyes snapped up and widened, held in place. 

He wasn’t looking at her, not really. It was almost as if he was trapped in her light. Crawley’s golden eyes reflected the lamplight, shining brighter than the holy lamps in the temple, drawing him into their gaze, locked into angelic contemplation of the wonder of this Creation, this beauty. A part of him felt a brief stab of guilt to think that a demon should hold his awe so absolutely, that an Infernal being should not be praised as the most beautiful thing in Creation. But she was, and he was an angel, made to adore the beauty of Creation, so what could he do, really?

With a firm double-blink, Aziraphale pulled himself from his debatably heretical thoughts and broke their locked gaze. He busied himself with the remaining few dirty cloths, regretting that Crawley had to see them at all. 

Crawley spoke softly into the silence. “Collarbone. That’ss the last big thing. Everything else iss minor.”

Oh, right, that wasn’t a dislocated shoulder. Drat. He needed to get better at figuring that out with visual information alone. He said, “Ahem. Good, then. That’s good news -- you’re nearly there.” He double-checked her collarbones to confirm that there was no setting needed (he hadn’t noticed any sticking-out bone ends when he’d been cleaning), then nodded. “Well, I’m ready, for all the help I am.” Cleaning. Babbling. Hand-holding. He could help humans more than he could help his… this… well, Crawley. He tried for a small smile, but could feel that it had gone sour with self-pity.

But then, the strangest thing of the evening happened. Stranger still than Crawley’s menorah eyes, which in itself would give Aziraphale fuel for contemplation for several centuries. Crawley’s body went suddenly still, not from discorporation, but with determination; her brows furrowed and her nostrils flared; her lips drew together tightly, and then she turned her eyes away from him and spoke in the barest whisper: “Angel, you’ve helped. I… don’t think I would have made it without your help.” And then her body went slack and her eyes flicked back toward Aziraphale to check his reaction. He barely looked away in time. His heart pounded suddenly and his face felt hot, as if he’d been hiking swiftly in the midday heat. His lips, of their own volition, drew up into the smallest hopeful smile. What did it mean? Why did Crawley say this, and say it the way she did, as if she were girding herself for battle? Why was his heart the battle drum, too?

Aziraphale kept his questions in, as a good angel should. He kept his hands busy at work, to hide their shaking. He tried to speak, but the air choked such that he barely whispered, “I’m glad, then, that I could help.” It wasn’t enough. But he didn’t know how to explain any of that.

Instead, he knelt, turned slightly away, while the crunching noise of her collarbone Healing and the rapid breaths of her pain marked the passage of time. “Gah! Done!” she said, more loudly, and once again opened her eyes. Aziraphale gave a barely perceptible nod.

They remained in silence for a while, letting the sounds of quiet things fill the space. Aziraphale could pick out sounds even as far out as down the street, if he chose to, but he was content with the soft silence of their companionship for the time. Especially as it marked that Crawley was no longer suffering, and that was a good thing. 

When he’d finished tidying the last of the clean cloths and moved the water bowls and buckets back out of the way, Aziraphale turned back to Crawley and asked, “How about a cup of water?”

“Water?” Crawley’s eyebrow curved up, teasing, “I nearly discorporate and you offer me water? Haven’t you got anything better?” How typically Crawley. She could find something potable in the middle of a wasteland. She’d found some on the Ark, and it wasn’t from the regular supply stash, either. Aziraphale had been about to enjoy his own cup of beer just before this entire disturbance started; it wouldn’t hurt to split it with Crawley and the company would be lovely. But Aziraphale also knew that Crawley’s corporation was in dire need of fluids and water was the best kind to add in.

“One small cup of water, Crawley -- your corporation will need some water in it, at least! If you drink that good --” ( _She’s a demon, you idiot_ , he thought to himself.) “-- well, I mean -- then I’ve got a bit of beer I’ll share with you.” Crawley made a noise of complaint, and then Aziraphale finished, “And then you’ll rest! Crawley, you need it! I can stand watch all night. No one will disturb us. I -- I promise.” Aziraphale would make sure of it. He owed her that much, didn’t he? Did he? Did it matter? Regardless, nothing would disturb her without first having to go through him. 

Crawley made a series of sounds that Aziraphale translated as acquiescence and a request for the water cup. Clearly, she was feeling more herself if she was returning to her usual lexicon of bizarrely expressive monosyllables. Aziraphale held the cup to her lips, going slowly so that she wouldn’t choke. He ignored how she watched him from under her auburn lashes. Definitely ignored. Likewise, his heart was not, in fact, pounding again for no apparent reason.

As she finished the last of the cup, Aziraphale smiled with satisfaction. (The lamps glowed brighter, both the ones of clay and oil and the ones of the Serpent of Eden, but the Angel would fail to notice these details.) “There now, wonderful!” Aziraphale said, clasping his hands together, “I’ll just get that bit of beer.” And he rose to cross the room back over to his cloth-covered pantry shelves, his beer, and the long-awaited pomegranates.

At the shelf, he pondered for a moment. Should he bring out all of it at once? No. It would be better to start with just a small mug of beer for Crawley and encourage her to rest more. Later, they could have a bit more beer together and share the pomegranate. It would mean waiting longer, but it would be a more enjoyable experience. And it would give Crawley something to encourage her to rest -- a bit more beer and treats to look forward to later. Yes, that was the best course of action.

Decision made, Aziraphale turned, small mug in hand. “Here you are, Crawley -- “

But the room was empty.

Aziraphale’s feelings fleeted past, too fast to catch, until they settled on regret. He should have expected that Crawley would leave as soon as she was able. Yes, they had been through challenges together, there was a certain degree of trust and understanding there, but Aziraphale also knew that Crawley rarely felt safe in any one place for long. Even with his assurances, the chances that she would have remained had been slim, and he should have acknowledged that.

The Angel glanced briefly upward, then quietly, to himself, he came as close as he could to gifting a demon a Blessing: “Safe travels and until next time; do be more careful, Crawley.

“Time to clean up, I suppose,” and he took a drink of the beer. It was the work of a few minutes to put the cloths and soiled blanket into a basket for “washing”. To remove the blood and dust from his clothing. To put the moved lamps back to where they needed to be. He swept his floor smooth again. Lastly, he blew out the lamp in the alcove. All external evidence of the demon’s presence was gone.

Internally was another matter.

Crawley had indicated this was a repeating occurrence, being beaten unto Death’s doorstep. Aziraphale would be ready next time, then. Not only would he be less of a coward, he informed himself, but he would _help_. Humans were so awfully clever; they had learned far more about demons than they had angels, Aziraphale knew. Aziraphale would research. He would figure out how he could use his divine energy to safely boost Crawley’s Healing. He smiled to himself, just slightly: He did love a good research project, and this one he didn’t even need to conceal from his Superiors. Just learning more about the Enemy, that’s all. Nothing of note, here.

He was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, put here on Earth with one purpose, writ into his very angelic essence. Guard that which has been Created and put upon the Earth. Crawley, too, was one of Earth’s denizens. Thus, Aziraphale would fulfil his purpose, and Guard the demon. He gave a smile and a wiggle, then got to work.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the “Crawly” era, pre-Golgotha, which honestly makes me twitch to see. (Far too crawling-at-your-feet-ish.) Hence, the compromise of “Crawley”, since it was the possible name Crowley considered in the book before deciding on “Crowley”.
> 
> Crawley's line about being bludgeoned to death by rocks is a quote from the 1999 movie "Dogma".
> 
> \-----
> 
> *Since the author doesn’t know period Hebrew (or even modern Hebrew, really), they’ve chosen to use the term “Mensch” to indicate that Aziraphale is regarded as a person who is held in high regard due to his compassion, integrity, honor, and modesty. Naturally, Aziraphale waves all of this off, which is why he’s regarded as such. If there are any Hebrew scholars out there who know a better term, I would happily substitute it!


End file.
